


Working Stiff

by knotted_rose



Category: CSI RPF
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, PWP, RPS - Freeform, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-12
Updated: 2011-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-16 22:07:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knotted_rose/pseuds/knotted_rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Words are not Billy's friends. He needs to forget them for a while, to just feel, and what better way to do that then by spending time with his friends Eric and George?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Working Stiff

**Author's Note:**

> RPS of Billy (Gil) Nick (George) and Greg (Eric)

Billy walks out of the studio with a glib smile and a quick wave to the fans standing at the door, slides into the back of the limo waiting for him, then gives brisk directions to the driver to where his own car is parked, about one and a half miles away, at a free lot.

He is _not_ thinking, not even considering, how the interview went, or how his hands are still shaking with the effort, like a quarterback who's been sacked too many times. He doesn't show it though, doesn't swear in front of the driver, just continues his half-smile, the one he's worked so hard at, the one that makes people call him "enigmatic."

They don't know how difficult it is. Billy Petersen was a jock in school. He never got science, never understood geeks. Hell, he _flunked_ chemistry. But they always expect him to be so smart. He never gets through an interview without feeling as though he lost the game because of too many pass interceptions and fumbles, as well as tripping over his own feet.

One good thing about being a producer--he gets the scripts early. He works and practices and tapes himself and then practices some more just to get those Latin words right. So they glide off his tongue, fall as easily as water, as sweat.

As come.

He hides his groan under a cough and denies to himself where he's actually going, even as he gets into his car, even as he turns up the wrong highway--the highway that won't take him home, that's in the opposite direction of Gina and the big empty showplace house and the _life_ that's part of the long-term game plan, that he's supposed to like but still struggles to maintain.

When he pulls up to their house, he almost hopes they aren't there. Or that they weren't serious when they said that he could just stop by, anytime. That they would always be there for him.

The door opens after the softest of taps. And then they're there, both of them, George, as well as Eric.

They look at him, then at each other for a second. Billy doesn't know what they see--his tiredness, his disgust, or his self-pity. It doesn't matter. As one, they reach for him, pull him in.

Pull him under.

Eric stays in front of him, tugging his jacket off his arms, going straight for the jugular with tiny bites and catlike licks and breath that is hot and cold on his neck, raising goose bumps all across his shoulders, down his back. George comes up from behind, solid and strong, helping Billy strip his coat the rest of the way off, pulling up on Billy's shirt, coasting warm hands over Billy's stomach, reaching up to tweak a nipple while he goes for the other side of Billy's neck, kissing and nibbling and so fucking _tender_ that Billy has to bite his tongue or he's going to say something he'll regret.

They don't talk about it. Ever. Eric, even George, has tried to talk with Billy about whatever this thing is that they do, more than once. But Billy refuses to say anything. Doesn't want to use more _words_. He comes here to get away from the words, the work, the expectations.

As they lead him from the front hallway to the cool bed in the back with the mounds of pillows and softest cotton sheets, he plays his usual fantasy in his head, the one where he's just a working stiff, come home from a regular job, like pouring concrete or selling insurance or serving drinks in a bar. These are his lovers, also back from whatever fills their days. They're just regular _guys_ who can kiss and bite and fuck and never worry about what people might say or ratings or star status or about interviews that always seem to go wrong.

Billy dives into his dream, driving himself onto Eric, tackling the boy and pushing them both down onto the bed. Only now does he let himself take hold of that too-smart mouth, kissing Eric long and deep. Lemon and too-sweet sugar coat his tongue, make him seek more, delving into Eric, lashing away at the artificial flavors until all Billy can taste is _him_ , the man/boy who bucks against him, begging without words, moaning so nicely, as he's been taught. Billy pulls back for a moment to see, to wonder again at the boy offering himself so willingly to Billy, the old man with the grey hair and the middle-age spread. Why he ever agreed in the first place, Billy doesn't know. Particularly when he already had someone like George.

George--who is still nuzzling the back of Billy's neck, having followed them onto the bed. Who helps Billy out of his shirt, just as Billy is helping Eric out of his. Who covers Billy's back with his own equally bare chest, warm and soft and so alive. Who laces his fingers through Billy's as they stroke Eric, across pecs, along ribs, skirting the edge of Eric's jeans but not dipping under, watching ab muscles twitch.

"Beautiful." The whispered word floats over Billy's shoulder. He agrees--Eric is beautiful, a feast for their eyes, and theirs alone. Hair standing up like it has too much energy, like the rest of Eric. Lips already a little kiss-swollen. Chest that's moving up and down quickly, breath coming in tiny pants. Not sweat-slicked--not yet--but skin still white and soft and almost glowing.

George stiffens behind Billy, pulls away slightly. Billy figures out what the matter is almost as soon as George does, and tugs him back, closer.

The no-speaking rule generally only lasts until they're all too involved to care. It's okay with Billy that George gets there so quickly--he loves Eric. It's obvious to everyone, even a dumb jock like Billy.

It also means that George needs something better with which to occupy his mouth.

Billy reaches over his shoulder, pets George's cheek, trying to reassure the other man, then follows the strong, slightly stubbled jaw down to lips that are thin and soft and hiding a furnace. The heat is almost as punishing as the suction George gives his finger, and Billy adds a second immediately. He closes his eyes and slips his fingers in and out of George's mouth for a moment, the sound of slurping so close to his ear--feels the pressure of George's jaw on his shoulder, how it's repeated in his cock, pressing against the confines of his interview-worthy grey slacks.

Then he opens his eyes and tries to concentrate on what's before him. He undoes the button on Eric's jeans one-handed, pulls down the zip. Eric isn't wearing his usual boxer-briefs, and Billy wonders for a moment what he'd interrupted. Then George adds a hint of teeth, scraping along his fingers, and Billy decides it doesn't matter. That in his fantasy, Eric does this for _him_.

He pulls his fingers from George's mouth, runs them up Eric's cock, loving the shudder the young man gives as he reaches the crown of the boy's penis and tweaks it, slightly, gathering the liquid that's already dripping there. Then he returns his fingers to George's hot mouth, relishing the groan that echoes out of George's bare chest, across his back, feeling a reciprocal groan echoing back. While Billy is occupied, Eric pushes his pants down and kicks them off. Impatient boy, but Billy doesn't mind.

George's fingers are curious, tugging at Billy's slacks, questing, seeking, opening them, getting him out. For a moment, Billy just lets himself feel, the wet heat of his lover's mouth, the silky-steel of his other lover's cock, the twisting pull on his own dick. He shuffles over a little, strips out of his pants and gets between Eric's legs, leading George behind him the whole time.

With the moistened fingers he reaches down for that hidden place between Eric's legs, slipping in without effort, a perfect play. The gasp that Eric releases, soft but full, encourages Billy to reward him. He leans down and takes Eric's cock in his mouth, sucking much like George had been sucking his fingers, hard and with a hint of teeth. Eric starts moaning, wrapping his fingers in the bed sheets, digging in his heels and thrusting his hips minutely, inching up and down. He tosses his head back and forth across the pillow, already so lost, letting go with groans and half-said words, whispered pleas for stopping and going.

Billy feels, more than hears, the repeated, "Beautiful," from over his shoulder. Then a hot tongue makes its presence known from the sidelines, slaloming down his back. He can't contain his own gasp when it reaches his end zone, warming and making him supple, like leather left in the sun. He tries to give to Eric what is being given to him as he loses all his words and his rules and even his fantasy, until it's just them, just these two trusted friends, lovers, in bed with him. Until all he knows is skin and sweat and pleasure and pleasing.

Eventually that wicked tongue pulls away and Billy remembers again to breathe. Cool hands from behind him cover his erection with a condom and then more lube that quickly warms.

Eric is ready. He's still half out of his mind, actually, and Billy doesn't want him to come down quickly. He places Eric's hands above his head, urging him to hang onto the bed frame while he spends a second torturing Eric's nipples with hard bites and a soothing tongue.

This is as close as he's ever going to get to his _other_ fantasy, with Eric and leather cuffs and stinging palms and white and pink skin turning pink and red. He can't even admit it to himself. But sometimes. . .

Billy shakes himself, pulls back, then uses his hands to hold Eric open as he slides in, letting heat and soft goodness clutch at him as Eric's hands clutch at the headboard. Billy waits, panting, the need to _thrust_ and _move_ clawing up his spine, but he hangs back, like a quarterback in the pocket, trusting his buddies to do the right thing, waiting and waiting for the right moment.

When George starts to fill him, slowly, tenderly, he slams back, impaling himself. He may be old, but he's far beyond needing gentle. The action pulls him partly out of Eric, but then George bangs into him, pushing him forward again--luck, or skill, making George strike that fusion spot, where all Billy can see is stars, as if he'd been tackled too hard.

And George keeps pushing, ramming into him with more and more force. Billy angles his hips until he's sure Eric is seeing stars also but there isn't much else he can do except go along for the ride, fucking Eric passively while he's being fucked actively, push, pull, pant and groan, the no-speaking rule long forgotten, unpracticed endearments and commands, like "sweet boy," and "more," falling easily from his lips now, like the sweat from his brow.

As the knife-edge of orgasm approaches, Billy reaches for Eric and jerks, hard. It's how he likes to be pulled. He doesn't have the wherewithal to think that he might be training the young man to enjoy more pain with his pleasure. Not until later. For now, it's to bring him to that gasping point and push him over, carrying Billy as that velvet vice clutches his dick, just as Eric's hands still clench the head board. Just as George clenches above him, swearing in that deep, cracked voice as he comes too.

"Good boy, good boy," Billy finds himself muttering over and over again as he brings Eric's hands down, letting them wrap around him, soothing and petting the shaking muscles, kissing and licking at sweat and come. He's drifting, trying to take care of Eric with clumsy hands while George takes care of him, until they all collapse, George in the middle, cuddling with Eric on one side while Billy sprawls, just foot and knee and hand still in contact with his lovers.

It isn't until Billy opens his eyes that he realizes he'd closed them. He doesn't think he was out for long--Eric and George are still awake, are still involved with each other. Still believe him asleep.

Eric is leaning up on one arm, looking down at George, caressing his face gently.

" _Édesem._ " The whispered endearment skitters across Billy's damp skin. Though Eric claims to be one-hundred-percent All-American Boy, he still knows something of his grandparent's language. They'd accused him of making the words up until he'd dragged them to the computer and proven that he was, indeed, speaking Hungarian.

"My sweet," George echoes back. They kiss lightly, then Eric lays down and they close their eyes.

Billy sighs silently, scooting closer, letting his whole leg from ankle to thigh touch as sleep tugs at him. He resolves that he won't stay the night, though he knows they'll invite him--may even hide his car keys again. But he can't. He's just a working stiff, only allowed here, in the Domain of Princes, for brief sojourns. He has his own grand plans, his own house to go to, his own game of life to play.

But he knows he'll be back. Probably after the next awful interview.

{end}


End file.
